by Jane Godman
Niniane subsided, panting. “What?” The question was laden with suspicion.
“Well, you obviously want to impress Cal here—or do you call him Merlin? But, even if he wasn’t around, there’s Jethro, whom you must admit is serious eye candy. Even Dimitar is quite easy to look at when he’s not doing the mean, moody scowling thing. Yet here you are, rolling around on the ground with your hair all mussed up, your face blotchy and your eyes all puffy. And that language. Tut, tut.”
“What is your point?”
“I’m just saying you’re going the wrong way about getting yourself a man. You could be quite pretty if you gave yourself half a chance...”
“Quite pretty?” Niniane was almost spitting with outrage. “I’ll have you know I am considered the most beautiful woman in all Otherworld.”
“Really? I can’t see it myself.” Stella shook her head. She was aware of Cal watching her closely and somewhat nervously. Probably wondering what the hell she was doing. She didn’t blame him. She was wondering what the hell she was doing.
She risked releasing Niniane’s hands. Stella allowed herself a small, inward sigh of relief when the sorceress did not instantly claw her face off.
“I am beautiful.” Niniane’s vanity was such that she refused to allow the matter to drop. Which was exactly what Stella had been counting on.
“If you say so.” Stella shrugged, rising to her feet.
Niniane stood, facing her. “Look at me. You must see it.”
Stella made a pretense of studying her thoughtfully. Her heart was hammering so loudly she thought it might give her away. She would get only one chance at this. Mess it up and they would all die. Keep her distracted. Use her vanity against her. She repeated the words to herself.
“Do a twirl.” Stella made a circular movement with one finger and, to her never-ending surprise, Niniane obediently spun around in a circle.
It was now or never. The instant Niniane had her back to her, Stella raised her hand. “Fýrwylm.” Fire shot from her fingertips and engulfed Niniane’s clothing. “Feel free to join me, boys.”
Cal and Jethro hurried to her side, adding their own flames to hers. The sorceress writhed and shrieked like a witch at the stake. The blaze consumed her, starting at her legs and working up her torso. Stella had the strangest feeling that the fire was building to an inferno inside Niniane. As though the sorceress’s body had no substance and was nothing more than a shell that allowed the elements to enter and grow out of control within her. Like a hollowed-out tree stump or the skin a snake has shed.
“Are we strong enough to destroy her?” Stella had to shout above the roaring, hissing sounds of the flames. Because if they couldn’t crush Niniane completely, they were in deep trouble.
“We can bloody well try.” Cal’s face was grim. “Join hands. We’ll be more powerful that way.”
The three of them held hands while Stella kept her right hand extended toward Niniane. She felt a jolt as Cal’s and Jethro’s energy surged through her, redoubling her own powers. The strength of the streak of fire leaving her fingertips lifted Niniane off her feet and sent her hurtling partway down the slope.
“There’s no smell,” Jethro commented, looking down at Niniane. Her once-pale flesh was blackened now, the shriek fading to a thin whine. But she was still upright and trying to fight her way back to them against the wall of flames. “You’d expect there to be a terrible smell of barbecued flesh when someone gets burned alive.”
“Niniane has never been alive.” Cal’s voice was grim.
Just as Stella was beginning to think she could no longer sustain the mental energy needed to continue, to keep being the conduit for these two powerful men, Niniane stopped moving. The flames faded to a dull orange glow and her charred flesh began to cool to a light gray.
Stella lowered her hand. Slowly, with a curious grace, Niniane’s tall figure collapsed into the ground, leaving behind only a pile of ashes. A slight breeze stirred the grass, blowing the ashes across the green stalks.
“We did it.” Dimitar held up a hand to high-five Cal and got a bleak look in response.
“I’m going back down there.” Jethro scanned the battle below him. “Lorcan may need help.”
“I’ll come with you. You’ll need someone to watch your back in that madness.” Dimitar appeared not to notice the surprised glances Cal and Stella gave him. Jethro, on the other hand, grinned at them and shrugged his shoulders. It seemed Prince Tibor’s hold over his human servant was not quite as strong as the vampire ruler might believe.
“Is that it?” Stella looked at the gray patch of ash on the grass. The only sign that Niniane had been there at all. “Are you finally free?”
“Free of Niniane? Yes. Free of myself? Never.”
Stella frowned, wanting to ask him to explain. Then a sidhe spear landed close to their feet and she decided that now might not be the best time for an in-depth discussion. She turned back to view the battlefield, her eyes seeking Moncoya, but she could see no sign of him.
Chapter 25
Throughout the long hours of fighting, Lorcan caught occasional glimpses of Tanzi and Vashti. From what he could see, the Valkyries had taught them well. While Vashti swung a mace above her head like a fury, Tanzi fought hand-to-hand with a broadsword that was almost the same height as she was. She thrust with this giant weapon while using her shield to parry her opponent’s blows. Once or twice, Lorcan observed her bringing the shield crashing down on the head of an unsuspecting enemy and bit back a smile. It might not be sporting, but you had to admire her style.
Lorcan himself had been in real danger only once. Backed into a corner of the palace wall by a group of bloodthirsty sidhes, his strength had been waning when Jethro and Dimitar had come to his aid. Fighting alongside Prince Tibor’s human slave and the mercenary who gave necromancing a bad name had been a surreal yet rewarding experience. He was still unsure how it had come about.
Although the outcome was already decided long before they arrived, the ranks of what Stella would call the “good guys” had been swelled by the arrival of the werefalcons and the elves. The fight was waning now and Lorcan took the opportunity to look around and check on Tanzi once more. He was unsure why it should matter to him if Moncoya’s daughter had survived the fray, but it did. Funnily enough, he didn’t feel the same interest in Vashti’s fate. At first, he couldn’t see Tanzi. Then he caught a flash of her gold hair as she ran past him. The next thing he knew, she had been felled by a sickening blow to her shoulder from a club-wielding elf. She dropped like a stone into the mud while the carnage continued around her. The elf dealt Tanzi another blow while she lay on the ground before charging onward into the fray.
Lorcan paused. He should just ignore what he’d just seen, right? She might be a woman, but she was still a sidhe. The enemy and Daddy’s girl to the core. He began to move away, back to help the group of Iberian sidhe with whom he had been fighting. People who mattered. Muttering a curse, he stopped in his tracks, turned and bent over Tanzi as she lay deathly still. Scooping her up into his arms—mere seconds before she was crushed under the hooves of one of Grindan’s mounted warriors—he cast a swift glance around him.
They could chalk this one up to Team Stella. Stella herself was standing near the pagoda above the battleground, directing operations. Cal was at her side. Their hands were clasped. Stella’s powers were so strong now that she held the undead troops in her control like the consummate maestro conducting her orchestra. Under her orders, Grindan and his men were sweeping through the valley, driving the opposing sidhe forces relentlessly back. The ogres were too busy fighting among themselves to notice anything else. The elves and werefalcons were dealing with the sidhe forces on the ground. There was no sign of Moncoya or Vashti, who had obviously seen how things were going and made a sharp getaway. Lorcan decided no one would miss him or Tanzi
.
The palace grounds were a vast, rolling expanse of parkland that swept past the huge lake before dipping down into a valley. Here, the open grassland gave way to pine trees, and a river made a meandering path between steep rocky inclines. Tanzi might be a lightweight, but Lorcan was staggering slightly under his burden by the time he reached the river. A few hours of strenuous fighting followed by a spot of weight lifting would do that every time. He found a large, flat rock on the riverbank and placed Tanzi on it.
Lorcan studied her thoughtfully. Her breathing was worryingly shallow. Each time she inhaled, her small breasts barely moved beneath the silk blouse she wore. Always pale, her complexion had become ghostly. First things first. He needed to assess the damage to her shoulder. Luckily, her blouse fastened at the front with a row of tiny buttons. His fingers felt too big and clumsy for such dainty fastenings and he hesitated momentarily at the realization that she wasn’t wearing anything under the shirt.
“Too late for modesty. Next time though, maybe consider putting on underwear before you go into battle.” Lorcan spoke to the prone figure in the manner of a schoolmaster scolding a badly behaved child. Tugging the blouse down over her injured shoulder, he lifted and turned her so that he could view her shoulder blade. He gave a soft whistle. The smooth skin of her back was already marred by deep, angry bruises. To say Tanzi had been beaten black-and-blue would be to seriously limit the color spectrum of blemishes defacing her delicate flesh.
As he was pondering what to do next, her eyelids flickered and she groaned. Lorcan lowered her gently down onto the rock. “It’s okay. You’ve taken a nasty hit to your shoulder, but I don’t think there are any broken bones.”
She sat up abruptly and he couldn’t help but glance at her high, pointed breasts, revealed in all their beauty by the open blouse. Give me a break, God. I’m a man, after all, and they are bloody gorgeous. To his chagrin, Tanzi caught the direction of his gaze. She attempted to clutch her shirt closed, and the action caused her to cry out in pain. Lorcan made a move toward her, wanting to reassure her.
“Stay where you are, necromancer! My God, what have you been doing to me while I was unconscious?”
“Ah, no. Will you catch yourself on with that? Did you think...?” He ran his hand through his hair in a helpless gesture. “Seriously? You think I’m the sort of sick bastard who’d touch you up when you were out cold?” He sat down on the rock next to her, shaking his head. “I didn’t expect you to have much of an opinion of me, but that?”
“You are the friend of the other one. The ancient sorcerer who wishes to destroy my father.”
This wasn’t going to be easy. “Look, right at this minute I’m not taking sides. I saw you get hurt. I got you away from the battle. I brought you down here because I thought your wounds might need bathing or you might need a drink of water.” He grinned, but her face told him he might as well have snarled. “What can I say? I’m good at the rescuing, not so great at the old first aid.”
“Why would you save me?” The ring of fire around her irises made the pupils appear endlessly blue. Their expression was suspicious.
“Because I’m an idiot who hasn’t a single brain cell in his thick Irish head.”
“Oh, I see what you are doing. You are attempting to disarm me by being charming.”
“I might be trying but, by the look on your face, I’d say I’m failing miserably.”
“I would like some water.” Her voice was regal. The princess commanding a servant.
Lorcan glanced around. There was nothing for her to drink out of. Yet another black mark for him, another reason for those glorious eyes to register their contempt. Going to the river’s edge, he knelt and filled his cupped hands with clear, cold liquid. Returning to Tanzi, he held his hands out to her. The outcome was in doubt for a few seconds, then she dipped her head and sipped the water from his hands.
“Thank you. You may leave me now.”
“I could do that, I suppose. If I was the sort of unfeeling bastard who leaves an injured girl to fend for herself in the middle of a war zone. Lucky for you, I’m not.”
“You call this luck?” He could almost feel the anger shimmering through her slender body.
“Ah, come on now.” He flashed her his best Irish-rogue grin. The one that worked nine times out of ten. “Things could be a lot worse.”
Her disdainful expression didn’t falter. It looked as if this was going to be that one-in-ten time when the good old Irish allure failed him. Tanzi made an effort to get to her feet, gripping her bottom lip between her teeth. A slight groan escaped her and she sank back down onto the rock. Her face had a definite greenish tinge to it.
“I think you’d better let me take a closer look at that shoulder.” Lorcan reached out a hand.
“Don’t you dare touch me, necromancer!” Some of the color returned to her cheeks as she recoiled slightly, gripping her blouse tightly closed.
“Do you know what? I can’t help thinking this would be a whole lot easier if you’d come down from your high ropes. I get it, you know. You are a noble princess and I’m a lowly Irish sorcerer not fit to kiss the hem of your gown. But if you don’t let me help, you might end up with some permanent damage. And, believe it or not—” he grinned “—I have seen a girl’s shoulder before and managed to control my lust.”
He sensed the debate raging within her. Finally, she gave a brief nod. Turning her back to him, she slid the blouse from her right shoulder. Lorcan ran his hand lightly down from her shoulder to her waist. Her skin felt cool beneath his fingers and she shivered at his touch.
“It’s as I said, I don’t think there are any bones broken but you’re going to be sore for a while. Some cold water on this might help.” He tugged his shirt over his head and went back to the river’s edge to wet the garment in the fast-flowing water. After wringing it out, he returned to Tanzi. He folded the shirt into a wad and held it against her back.
He watched her profile as her teeth caught and held her trembling bottom lip. Who’d have thought he’d ever find a grain of sympathy within him for Moncoya’s daughter?
“I must go back.” She glanced fretfully back toward the palace.
Lorcan shook his head. “Look, I don’t know how much you were aware of before you got injured, but I have to tell you it wasn’t going well for your side.”
“I know.” He had to bend his head closer to hear the words. “What else can I do?”
“Rest,” he said firmly. “We are going to go over to that little copse over there—” he pointed “—and you are going to try to sleep. Then, and only then, I’ll take you back to the palace.”
“Sleep?” Her voice wobbled with incredulity and, for the first time, she smiled at him.
Tanzi’s smile was something Lorcan had not prepared himself for. It knocked him sideways. Knowing what they were capable of, Lorcan had always considered himself immune to the legendary enchantment of the faerie. Faerie glamor, as it had been called in the days before Moncoya had swept aside the old ways. Gazing down at her for an instant, drinking in the sheer beauty of her face, he realized he might not be as resistant as he believed. He gave himself a mental shake. Moncoya’s daughter. Sidhe princess. Poison wrapped up in a perfect face and body. That was better.
“Best treatment for shock, so my mother used to say. Can you stand?”
Tanzi staggered slightly as she got to her feet, but she managed to stay upright. Lorcan kept his arm around her, steadying her and holding the makeshift compress in place while she kept her blouse closed. In this manner they made their halting way toward the copse.
“You and Vashti... I always thought you were alike. But you’re not,” he commented.
“No, we might be twins, but we are opposites in personality. My father sees Vashti as the son he never had. Me? I’m useful as a weapon but beyond that I’m just a girl. Unles
s I have my sword in my hand, my only value to him is as a pawn in the marriage game.” She stated it as a fact, without bitterness or complaint.
“Feudal.” Lorcan kept his voice neutral, although his feelings were anything but. Why should it affect him so profoundly? It shouldn’t matter to me, Lorcan thought, as he trudged into the shade of the trees, supporting her against his side. Moncoya’s family didn’t interest him. This bright, brave girl meant nothing to him. Yet the thought of her being used in such a way made a spark of anger ignite deep in his gut.
Tanzi attempted a shrug, wincing slightly as the movement caused new pain in her shoulder. “It is the way.”
“What if they make you marry a warty old man?”
“Are you pitying me, necromancer?”
“No. I think my sympathies would lie entirely with him.”
Her laughter was low-pitched and musical. “As they should.”
It was a strange end to a stranger day. Lorcan sat with his back against a tree trunk and held Moncoya’s daughter in his lap while she slept. The perfumed mass of her hair tickled his chin, and her soft warm weight against his chest reminded him that it had been a very long time since he had held a woman. He reminded himself several times—and his errant body several more times—that this was not just any woman. Darkness was falling when he woke her and they walked slowly back to the palace.
The scene within the grounds was one of carnage, but the battle was clearly over. Except no one seemed to have told the ogres, who were still fighting among themselves. Already there were signs that a cleanup operation was under way. When they reached the palace doors, two elf guards barred their way, clearly signaling that a new order was in place.
“I am Lorcan, friend of Cal.” The elf bowed his head in deference, acknowledging that he knew exactly who Lorcan was. “Take this lady straight to Cal. She is to be treated with respect.”